No Compromise
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: In the aftermath, Tate bides his time. Companion fic to 'The Biggest Joke of All' in Tate's point of view.


**A/N: This is a companion fic to _The Biggest Joke of All_. Violet's motivations will probably make more sense if you read that one first.**

* * *

It's a matter of days until Nora loses interest in the very thing she groomed me to fetch for her all these years.

She doesn't even know what to do with it. I watch her pick it up, put it down, leave it to lie irate with starvation and cold on the basement floor. She doesn't let anyone care for it, though. It's _hers,_ and if there's one thing she hasn't lost the sense of after all this time, it's property, even if her buyer's remorse is obvious to all. When Lorraine finally convinces her to restore it to its rightful owners, the relief is shared.

I feel sorry for the little screaming thing. All it does is bawl and shit something really vile; it's gonna be a long eternity for this one.

Nora doesn't want anything to do with me now that I've expired my usefulness; no one does. I walk along the deserted corridors of an empty house with nothing to do but bide my time. I know it won't take them long to forget I'm here. I've been seen it all before.

* * *

Between the smell and the worms poking holes into it, Violet's body is getting pretty gross. But as I stand crouched over it, I'm reminded of a line from a play I read a long time ago:_ 'You will rot in my arms and I will love you as carcass, for you love nothing if you do not love everything.'_ I stare at her gaping mouth, her unrecognizable face covered with flies and filth, and try to make myself love it the way I do the rest of her, with no compromise.

It's soothing to see her, even in this state. I don't talk to her or anything, I'm not that insane. I just look at her and grieve. Grieve for every goddamn thing I thought I'd finally found but lost.

When I walk back into the crawl space a few days later, her body's gone. I'm dismayed but not surprised: I figured sooner or later, they'd stick her in a ditch somewhere rather than give me a chance to get near her.

To make matters worse, Hayden is waiting for me on the other side.

"So, what are you gonna jerk off to now?"

"Get outta my way, Hayden," I demand tiredly.

"I could help take your mind off things," she suggests, crossing her arms under her chest. "Relieve some of that tension. You're vibrating with it."

"Aren't you chafed enough already?"

"There's gotta be some benefit to being dead," she smirks.

"Find someone else that vibrates to your liking and leave me the hell alone." Dozens of people determined to avoid me at all cost and not a day passes without her seeking my attention one way or another. It makes you wonder about divine punishment.

"Saving yourself for her, still? That's so cute."

"You made a pass," I sigh. "I turned you down. Shouldn't we be done for the day?"

"Oh, but I like this part the best. When you pretend you want to get rid of me, but don't," she smirks.

Before I can retort, she interrupts me by taking a step forward to grab a fistful of hair at the back of my nape, keeping me close. "We're natural allies around here, Tate. Someday you're gonna have to accept it."

* * *

Fuck you, Tennyson, you ignorant prick. Existence was tolerable before she came along, when it was just a flow of time with no point or meaning but a mission to fulfill. Nothing could be worse than having loved and lost her, only to stand a glass wall away from her with no hope for closure.

I've taken to following her around for days on end, far enough that she can't conceal herself from me. It's pathetic, I know, but what else is there to do? If the size of the little monster growing up next door is any indication, I've been brooding for quite some time already.

In a way, I get to know her better by watching her from afar than I ever could by spending every day of an eternity in her arms. I notice things no one does, like how forced her smile is and the way it fades when no one is watching. The sarcasm and clever retorts aren't new, but there's a forlorn edge to her that wasn't there before.

The most telling thing of all is the way she acts around her parents, like she's determined to please them at all costs. I know it's because of me she feels obligated and guilty.

I wish I could tell her that what happened to them had nothing to do with her. Their fate was written the moment they noticed that real estate ad; things were in motion long before we met. But somehow I doubt it would help my case.

Still, I worry about her. All that pretending, it must be exhausting.

One day, after watching the corners of her mouth drop one time too many, I creep in her room to leave a message on the board, like in the old days.

With white chalk, I write: _'Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.' _They're not my words, but they're accurate enough.

It's meant to be comforting, to let her know someone still cares enough to see past her pretence, but I'm rewarded by the sight of her bursting into tears and scrubbing the chalkboard clean with her open palms.

* * *

Hayden was right, as much as I hate to admit it. Without my meaning to, our relationship evolves the way prisoners bond with their cellmates, by default. We moderately tolerate each other's company, but you can only live in complete isolation for so long.

As we work our way to a détente, she stops offering sexual favors at each turn and I start forgetting to sneer at her every word. Hayden's fortune, it turns out, is not much preferable to mine. She too craves what she can't have, although she's determined to give any available substitute a try.

We spend days talking, bitching, poking fun at each other. It's not much, but still more than I used to have. Every year, we watch together as the Harmons hang up a tree and pretend they're the all American family celebrating another merry Christmas. Instead of dulling, Violet's distress becomes more visible over time. This year is no exception; her mouth is smiling but her eyes are empty.

"Little princess doesn't look too peachy."

"No, she doesn't," I concede. I tear my eyes away from Violet to find Hayden's already done the subject.

"Do you still want him? I thought you were done," I remind her. She's staring at Ben the way she always does, with longing and fury. I know for a fact she was with Travis and Elizabeth earlier this afternoon; clearly Hayden and I have a different notion of the correct way to pine after someone.

"I'm not done wanting to hurt him," she says with dangerous cheer in her voice.

"How romantic," I deadpan.

"You can pretend all you like, Byron, but what you feel is not love. It's obsession. And don't fool yourself; there's nothing pretty or pure about it."

"You don't know shit about the way I feel."

"Whatever you say, Snowflake."

"What difference does it make around here anyway?"

"None," she shrugs.

That night, I write on the board, _'It will get easier'_. I'm not quite sure that's the truth, but I don't want to alarm her.

* * *

I don't notice it until Hayden points it out mockingly, but Violet seems to be warming to my little notes. The words I write for her don't get erased right away. She starts checking the board more often, up to the point where she does every day. Never overtly of course, but I'm right behind her each time she pops into her old room just to give it an overall look.

I'm not sure what it means, other than her loneliness becoming too much for her to bear. She's always surrounded with people but there's no one she opens up to. She talks a lot but never says anything meaningful. She wanders around, her shoulders held low with a despondent look on her face and I can't help wondering if she might be yearning for those long afternoons we spent playing games and making out under the covers the way that I do.

I know she hasn't forgiven me. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn't. Her parents wouldn't forgive it, and she's as desperate as ever to redeem herself for loving me. _'Happy and judged or absolved and wretched.' _As for me, I've made my peace with being both judged and wretched.

I keep following her around, because there isn't anything else to do. The days are pretty uneventful with no new tenants to keep us entertained. I hear things about the economy being so wrecked the real estate market has become a field of ruins, not that I give it much attention. It would be nice, though, to have electricity again, and some new books to steal from the shelves.

Time goes on, dreadfully slow, a mind-numbing routine, until the day I watch words appear in chalk right before my eyes. '_WHEN does it get better?' _

For me. Although I can't see her, I know she can only be standing a few feet away, thinking of me, writing for me. It's so unexpected my first impulse is to run away until I've had time to mull it over, before I can do the wrong thing in ruin it all again. For all I know, it could be a century or two before she decides to acknowledge my presence again.

But of course, it's only a fleeting thought. Restraint, thinking things through: those were never my strong suits. Instead, I eagerly grab some chalk to answer immediately.

'_I don't know. For me, it took you.' _

'_Not helping'._

'_Sorry,' _I write. This is so fucking frustrating. Is she touched, flustered, annoyed? What do I have to say for a chance to be face to face with her again?

I conjure an image of her, of the smirk she used to give me when I taunted her. When I think about her, it's always the first thing that comes to mind, that self-deprecating smile of connivance.

'_And all the years before that?'_

The right answer is anything but the truth, I know, but I can't promise to change for her and then lie during our very first interaction. I spent so many years trying to please my surrogate mother in every possible way, with little regard for right and wrong that honesty doesn't come easy.

'_Nora took care of me,' _I answer in a careful choice of words. A stick of chalk raises and shakes against the board before falling to the ground. The air around the room changes, and I know she's gone. Just like that.

I don't try following her, this time. I just stare at the smudged white lines and cry.

"Hold it together, Loverboy. No one likes a self-pitying psychopath."

"Oh, fuck off, Hayden," I growl, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.

* * *

'_I hate myself for missing you.'_

Those are her next words to me.

I know she's there, breathing the same air I am, and although I probably owe it to her to play by her rules, I'm getting sick of this game. Being cast away and sought out at the same time; it starts playing tricks on my mind. I forget she's stopped loving me.

"Violet," I say out loud, revealing myself to her and hoping, _hoping _she'll let me be near if only for a moment.

When I feel her disappearing, I let out a bitter bark of a laugh and tell myself I'm done being pushed and pulled. It's an empty promise, but I feel mighty and rightful for a minute or two before the emptiness crashes over me again.

* * *

"You're a moron," Hayden states with a pitying glance as she blocks my way down the basement stairs.

"Is that your expert opinion?" I ask, pushing her out of my way.

"She's looking for you," she insists.

"Let her wait for a while, see how she likes it."

"Asshole."

"Nympho."

I suppose you could say I'm miffed. I thought we were getting somewhere, but ever since that time we faced each other, she's been shutting me out. That one step forward, ten steps back dance is getting old. I'm not giving up on her; I just need a break from being continually slapped in the face with rejection.

"I'm not in the mood to play the willing crutch," I state, "Or to listen to another equivocal lecture from a failed psych student."

"It's a little late in the game to locate your manly pride, don't you think?"

"I have no pride. You've told me often enough."

"Miss your chance and you'll regret it forever. Not that I care, but your perpetual woobie state is starting to weigh on _my _mood."

"Oh, wow, I hadn't realized I was putting you out. That changes _everything_."

"Don't make me drag you upstairs," Hayden challenges, a gleam of dare in her eye.

With an overstated sigh, I disappear and pop in Violet's room, expecting to find nothing there but another vague question in white chalk on that stupid board. Instead, I happen upon her calling my name.

* * *

The board reads: _'Sorry I bolted. I wasn't expecting you.'_ But I'm too busy staring at her to care.

"Are you there?" Violet is asking in alarm to the empty space. She's standing there, really _there_, not even trying to hide herself from me and instantly, I'm on alert. There's an edge of trepidation in her demeanour, like she's afraid she might lose her nerve. I shouldn't get my hopes up, I know, but it can't be helped.

"I'm here," I say, and suddenly, for the first time in forever, we're standing opposite each other.

She's looking as good as she always has, youthful and fresh and beautiful. I study her face like it's the last time; it might as well be. Her eyes look different somehow, although there are no wrinkles or dark circles staining her skin. It's either my imagination or the effect of years of solitary confinement.

"I thought of something funny this morning," she says, and stares like I'm supposed to make something of that statement.

"Okay," I frown.

"Yeah. And the other day," she continues, babbling, "I walked in on my dad wacking off in his office. It was the grossest thing I've ever witnessed, for sure. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell _you_."

From that point on, I can't hear a word she says over the deafening buzz in my ears. I think this might be it. Not a false alarm, not a drill, not a cosmic joke I'm the butt of. Her eyes soften and there it is, the half-smile she saves for me and never shows to anyone else.

I have to force myself to pay attention to her words and not just the raised corner of her mouth.

"Whenever something funny or stupid or freaky happens, I want to tell you and I can't Because of... you know. "

"Maybe you could," I say as tentatively as I can, although my elation is difficult to conceal. "Tell me things, I mean. It doesn't have to mean everything you think it'd mean."

"I thought not having you around was what I needed to stay sane. Maybe I was wrong," she says, standing closer.

* * *

She's the one who presses her lips against mine. I don't want to push my luck and I don't want to rush. I've waited for years and I can wait some more. When I tell her, she smirks and reaches down my pants, effectively shutting off my brain.

* * *

_"Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed."_

"What?"

"Don't you ever read?" I quip, earning a soft punch to my arm. I grab her hand and only release it when her fingers start brushing a pattern over the side of my torso.

"I would, if you quit stealing all the good books."

I can't stop staring at her face. I wonder how long it will take for this to feel normal as opposed to a vastly undeserved gift.

"You can have them. I think I've found a new hobby."

"Refer to me that way again and you'll have to get another one. What's wrong?" she asks, raising her head as she takes in the instant worry on my face.

"Don't joke about things like that yet, okay?" I plead. "It's been a very shitty few years."

"For me too."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Let's declare a moratorium on apologies for the time being," she suggests, and places a kiss on the tip of my nose.

"Until I screw up, you mean."

"Well, obviously", she says with a roll of her eyes, and laughs when I push her on her back to demonstrate how determined I am to remain on her good side.


End file.
